Misguidance
by In a Quandary
Summary: Drunk, Lightning takes advantage of a smitten Hope. Unpleasant revelations ensue. Post-game AU. One-shot, complete.


**Title:** Misguidance

**Genre:** Drama/Angst

**Rating:** R

**Warning:** Language, explicit sexual content and dubious consent. Beware the mood whiplash. Lightning is not at all a nice person in this fic, and I should probably add that this is _not_ a romance.

**Plot summary:** Drunk, Lightning takes advantage of a smitten Hope. Unpleasant revelations ensue. Post-game AU. One-shot, complete.

**A/N:** Smut with a dash of plot. Just to clarify, Hope is eighteen in this fic. Considering the popularity of Hope/Lightning pairing, I'm surprised that I have yet to come across this prompt.

Many thanks to my beta, Darkgirl5, who helped me sort out the characterization issues.

* * *

><p>This, thought Lightning as she pressed Hope harder against the wall, was not proceeding fast enough for her liking.<p>

He was breathing in shallow, rapid pants. She didn't have to see his eyes to know that the pupils were dilated, black nearly engulfing the surrounding green. Earlobe beneath her tongue, she could taste his pulse, quick and fluttery as bird's wings. And there was his scent – fear and anticipation and _aroused_ _male_. It drove her crazy, zinged through her nervous pathways straight to her womb and stoked the fire there.

Still Hope didn't move. He had frozen still, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator.

It hadn't begun like this. She had returned home from a harrowing day at work and an even more harrowing session at the bar. An occasional indulgence of hers was a good, hard round of no-strings sex. Stress had soared to record levels that week, and what better way to alleviate it than by fucking her and some random stranger's brains out? However, it would appear that her efforts were thwarted. Every idiot who had approached her tonight attempted to out-man her, accusing her lack of femininity. More fool they. She had excused herself before things could escalate into a brawl, leaving three broken fingers and a bruised jaw in her wake.

When the silver-haired youth unlatched the door to allow her in, Lightning had gone still on the spot. Then the shock wore off and she demanded what he was doing in her lounge. He had given her a worried look, said she'd invited him over. Even mentioned that they were to have dinner together. Recalling nothing – her memory was a faraway, inaccessible thing at the moment – she'd stepped inside, and, without ceremony, ordered him out of her house.

His already wide eyes widened further in hurt and surprise, but he'd stood his ground. Muttered something about drunkenness. His words had swum through her brain like treacle; she was too busy watching the bob of his Adam's apple as he spoke. He had such a beautiful throat, she'd decided. Slim and long, the tendons flushed against the moon-pale skin. He had such beautiful facial features, too. And chest. And waist. And—was she really eyeing her former charge? She must have been more inebriated than she thought because the only thing registering in her mind was that _Hope looked fuckable_.

Even in her lust-driven, alcohol-soaked state, she'd understood that _that_ was wrong.

So she'd closed her eyes. Repeated her command.

_Get out._

Hope hadn't obeyed.

Her eyes had flicked open to see the teenager approaching her, a determined twist to his mouth. Stopping in front of her, he stretched out a hand – to do _what_, she never found out. She'd seized the appendage as soon as it started in her direction, yanking it around and behind him in a reverse arm lock. The move was executed without conscious thought, an instinctive reaction to a perceived threat. Then she'd slammed the heel of her other palm between his shoulder blades and shoved him into the nearest wall.

He'd squirmed in her grip, demanding to know what had gotten into her and that she release him. Far from having the effect he wanted, his struggles emboldened her, made lust sizzle like liquid fire through her veins. Anything that placed the reins of power within her grasp invariably did. She'd tightened her hold around his wrist, clamped down on the urge to rub against him. Reminded herself that this was Hope, the fourteen-year-old surrogate brother she'd sworn to protect in their suicide mission as l'Cie. Only he wasn't fourteen anymore, he was grown-up and he had the most delectable shoulders and the way those jeans hugged his buttocks made her want to sink her fingers into them and _squeeze_—

Preoccupied as she'd been, she didn't realize that she'd closed the gap between their bodies until her lips had brushed against his nape.

Hope had gasped.

Her control had shattered.

Crazed, she'd latched her mouth onto the nearest expanse of flesh: his ear. The taste, sharp with the tang of sweat and mounting excitement, spurred her on. Curling her tongue around the lobe, she'd alternated between forceful suction and fleeting, almost casual nips. Oh, how he'd _responded_. Had she managed to retain any sense of decorum, she'd be mortified at the sounds that escaped from his throat and out the still open door.

There was a sudden spasm of his thigh. She recognized that sign – his knees were about to give way. Letting go of the arm that lay trapped between them, she'd watched with satisfaction as he swung it around to brace his now trembling form against the wall. If a quick nibble at his ear already reduced him to jelly, she wondered how he'd react to the prospect of full intercourse.

She couldn't wait to find out.

And this was the current situation they found themselves in.

Hope was _resisting_. Subtly, pitifully, but resist he did. Only now did she realize that. She'd given him ample chance to turn around and reciprocate her ministrations; not once had he taken her up on it. Impatient, she slid her fingers down to the waistband of his jeans, tugging on the belt loops. He remained immobile. Shook his head, even.

It pissed her off.

His shoulders tensed; he'd picked up on the change in her temper. Then, to her surprise, he started to plead. Pleaded in that sweet, boyish tenor of his that she was drunk, that she wouldn't be doing this otherwise. The part of her that wasn't buried underneath the lust – her nonexistent heart, perhaps – recognized the pain, the longing in his voice. Why they were there continued to elude her comprehension, however.

As for his reasoning, she paid it no mind. She wanted him and she wanted him _now_.

The multiple shots of bourbon she'd downed earlier simmered through her system, enveloping everything in a golden haze. Hugging his waist, she moulded her not-inconsiderable breasts to his back. Made it clear that there was no reluctance on her part. When Hope – the obstinate idiot – still refused to respond, she found herself resorting to the high-school standby. Predictably, he squeaked at the moist, unexpected intrusion of her tongue into his ear, and she exploited his moment of weakness to grab his shoulders and spin him around.

His expression was truly something to behold. Desire blazed aquamarine fire in his eyes, wild and barely restrained. His cheeks were tinted pink with the flush of arousal, and his mouth resembled nothing so much as an invitation, the soft, full lips parted. When his tongue darted out and back in anticipation, something in her snapped. Seizing a handful of silver hair, she yanked his head down and mashed his lips onto hers.

A muffled whimper escaped him, his attempts at resistance crumbling into dust. Not one to miss opportunities, she slipped her tongue into his mouth. Teased the sensitive palate, stroked the fleshy interiors of his cheeks. Entwined her tongue with his in a hot, slippery dance. He moaned, the sound travelling through her mouth and across her body in a wave of vibrations that made her place between her thighs throb.

Although Hope's height topped hers by a few inches, the difference was small enough that she had no difficulty nudging his legs apart, inserting a knee between them. A push upward had him bucking into her thigh, his erection hard and unmistakable. Keeping her balance by bracing one hand against the wall, she slid the other beneath his shirt. He snapped taut the instant her fingers made contact with his navel, the muscles clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

Disengaging her lips from his mouth, she applied them to his neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin. The shift in attention appeared to have revived some of his senses, for he finally dredged up the courage to do what he'd yearned to do – what she'd _needed_ him to do.

He _touched_ her.

As soon as Hope's hands came to rest upon her waist, it confirmed the suspicion that he'd never done this before. They were clumsy and hesitant, exhibiting none of the expertise she associated with those of men in her previous sexual encounters. But there was something in them that the others had lacked: tenderness. Reverence. He touched her as if she were more than just a willing body to fuck – as if she were actually _precious_ to him.

It alarmed and enthralled her at the same time.

Unskilled though his caresses were, she nevertheless leaned into them. Anything that provided relief from that maddening burn under her skin was most welcome. Her response fuelled his confidence in turn, and he splayed his fingers across her back, inadvertently – or so she presumed – dragging up the fabric of her sweater. But inadvertent or otherwise, he seemed to have hit on the right idea. It _was_ getting warm.

Stepping away from Hope – he gave a little whine at the loss of contact – she grasped the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. Dropped it negligently on the floor. She wasn't surprised when his eyes grew round as saucers; the remaining camisole left very little to the imagination.

Of course, she'd be damned if she were the only one getting undressed. A quick glance-over of Hope's person identified the zip-up shirt as the sole obstacle to his naked upper body. How convenient. She approached him, outstretched hand making a beeline for the zipper. A tug and the whisper of shifting fabric later, and his torso was exposed in all of its lean, milk-complexioned glory.

From there, it was a simple matter of manoeuvring Hope into a nearby chair and pulling herself onto his lap. His eyes rolled back in their sockets when she brought their groins together in a slow, deliberate grind, her panty-clad labia rubbing against the tent in his jeans. In a pique of uncharacteristic daring, he reached for her breasts. She arched into his still-tentative hands, prompting them to knead more firmly. A thumb flicked across her left nipple, sent electricity fizzling through her nerves and drew a hiss from her. Catching on, he repeated the motion until she was left breathless.

Through the haze of bliss, she saw that he was tilting his face up towards her, lips parted invitingly. She wasted no time in reasserting her dominance, crushing her mouth to his. Moans escaped him in a continuous stream as she thrust her tongue inside and out again, imitating the penetrative rhythm of coitus.

It was only when he pushed at her shoulders that she realized he had been trying to say something. Releasing his mouth with an audible pop, she scooted back just enough to see his expression. His eyes were crazed, his lips swollen from her relentless kisses (if they could even be called _that_; 'tongue-fucking' was by far a more apt description). Combined with his naked, sweat-glistened chest, he looked utterly debauched.

Never had she seen a sight more erotic.

Then those words tumbled from his lips and stripped her of all existing remnants of control:

_Please, Light. I need you. I need you so much_.

The rest of their clothes were discarded in record time. Buckles unclasped, their respective articles – belts and boots – flung unceremoniously to the side. Jeans tore away from trembling thighs, and her miniskirt no doubt needed mending when she cared to examine it next. The camisole had stayed, the sole survivor of the stripping rampage, but her panties, along with his boxers, ended up in a forlorn heap on the floor.

She settled astride his knees, let a finger trail down the line of silver pubic hairs to the rosy, turgid evidence of his arousal. Green eyes fluttered shut as she closed her fist around it, followed by a high-pitched mewl when she stroked along the velvet flesh. Several more strokes had him thrusting into her hand, head thrown back and spine curving in a perfect arc. Her nether regions were slick with moisture now, the hollow within nearly painful with the urge to be filled. Positioning herself, she sank onto his length in one smooth motion.

It felt incredible. Hope seemed to be in agreement, for his eyes snapped open and his lips reshaped themselves into a round 'o'. His erection was hot and hard inside her, chasing away the empty ache and replacing it with delicious heat. Eager for more, she grasped his shoulders, used the leverage the position offered to slide up his shaft. The friction was exquisite: a white-hot sear against her inner walls, bright as lightning and infinitely more pleasurable. She plunged back down before he could slip out of her, recreating the sensation of fullness that made her blood sing and her lover cry out.

Then she rose and sank down again. And again. And again.

The pace she set was leisurely at first, she rocking against him in shallow, agonizingly slow grinds. Each individual union of their bodies would press heated flesh together, wringing a gasp from her and a moan from him. His arms came around her, drew her into an embrace that brought them even closer. She could feel every tiny little flex of his muscles, hear the liquid slaps of their joining, smell their combined scents of man and woman and sex.

It was intoxicating.

The pleasure built quickly, an ever-climbing crescendo. Tantalizing grinds turned into frantic thrusts, him bucking up as she ground down. A knot began to form at the base of her spine, gaining pressure and intensity with each meeting of their hips, each slide of sweat-slicked skin against skin. His hands left her back, one feathering down her side to cup her bottom, the other entangling itself in her hair. Her name became a mantra that he chanted against her collarbone, harsh and ragged but above all, worshipful:

_Light, Light, oh Light—_

He came first. She felt it in the abrupt tensing of his back, the way he clutched her hip and pressed up, hard, into her. His body shook in tiny tremors as he threw his head back, eyes scrunched shut and a groan fleeing from the depths of his slackened mouth. It was a magnificent sight; none of her previous lovers had even been this passionate, this uninhibited. He looked like he was having the most incredible experience of his life – so transcendent was his expression.

Spent, he slumped back into the chair, leaving her to finish on her own. Were it not for the fact that he hadn't softened inside her, she would have growled and clocked him in a fit of unsated frustration. As it were, she continued to ride him, pressing two fingers to the apex of her thighs and winding the knot that was her impending climax tighter and tighter. He whimpered, this time – if post-orgasm sensitivity was any factor – in pain. She didn't care. Her heart was thumping madly, the pleasure from below rising to engulf her insides in a roaring inferno—

Then the knot unravelled and she sank her teeth into his shoulder to stifle the cry that wrenched itself from her lungs. Bright sparks danced up and down her spine, sizzled through her limbs and turned her nipples into stiff, turgid peaks. Her inner walls pulsated in delicious bursts of sensation around his shaft, startling a gasp out of him. For all of five seconds the euphoria lasted, then the tension evaporated in a flash that left her light-headed and labouring for breath.

He encircled her waist with one arm, holding her close. A hand smoothed away the damp strands of her fringe, tucked them behind her ear. Tilting his head up, he then closed the gap between them to plant a brief, chaste kiss on her lips.

The act was so incongruous to what they had been doing that she nearly recoiled in shock. No man she'd brought home had ever kissed her with such tenderness: theirs was a mutual agreement for the exchange of bodily pleasure and nothing more. She'd done no differently with this teenager before her – taken her pleasure from him, let him claim his own. But still here he sat, green eyes riveted on her and shining with what looked suspiciously like _love_—

There was something very, very wrong about all of this.

She leapt to her feet and out of his embrace, breaking their intimate connection. It was then that the effects of her bourbon overindulgence decided to reassert themselves, and she tottered, suddenly overcome by vertigo. Strong hands grasped her wrists, pulled her upright, but she could no more keep her balance than stop the black spots from swarming over her vision. Her head felt like a ton of bricks, weighing her down and pushing her ever closer to the ground—

_Hold on, Light—_

She descended into oblivion.

* * *

><p>Light danced across the surface of her eyelids, colouring the insides pink. With a yawn, Lightning opened them, taking stock of her surroundings.<p>

It was morning. She was in her bed, blanket tugged over her sprawled form. A pile of clothes – fresh articles from the wardrobe, judging by the crisp appearance – lay at her feet. For a moment, she stared at it, uncomprehending. Hadn't she hit the local bar last night in search of male company? She didn't recall bringing anyone home, though, and the only two people (aside herself) with the keys to her house were Serah and Hope.

Rising to a sitting position, she winced when the expected hangover set in, stabbing her brain with thousands of tiny needles. If this migraine was any indication, the quantity of alcohol she'd imbibed must have been quite substantial. Substantial enough to rend a hole in her memories, anyhow.

The blanket slipped off her shoulders then, prompting her to take note of the fact that she was almost nude. The place between her thighs felt sore and uncomfortably sticky; closer inspection revealed the dried, flaky remnants of what had once been bodily fluid. Semen, in all likelihood. The accompanying reek of sex was clue enough.

So she'd fucked someone. Not an unexpected occurrence – that had been her intention, after all. The fact that she'd done it _unprotected_ presented a veritable minefield of questions. No, it wasn't pregnancy that she was concerned about – the military-issued contraceptive implants took care of that. Sexually transmitted diseases, on the other hand, were rampant in the population, and drunk or no, she wasn't irresponsible enough to engage in intercourse without using some kind of prophylactic.

This meant one of two things. She'd been raped – unlikely – or she'd had sex with someone who she had, even in her drunken haze, recognized as trustworthy.

But that didn't make any sense at all. What _stranger_ could she have trusted?

Well, sitting here and thinking about it wouldn't give her any answers. She needed more clues.

Getting to her feet, she examined the provided clothes. They comprised of cotton undergarments and modest casualwear, both of the monochromatic variety. Well, that answered one question: her current houseguest was _not_ Serah. Serah would've picked out pastel colours, insisting – to Lightning's endless exasperation – that it made her look more feminine. And while she'd never before let Hope pick outfits for her, she remembered his stuttered remarks about how she looked good in black and grays. Perhaps it was he who had tucked her in bed, then.

But this would mean that he'd been privy to her… _indiscretion_ last night, wouldn't he? The details of her sex life were among the many things she'd prefer to keep private – especially where Hope was concerned. It was better that he remained ignorant, free to embrace the romantic ideals of 'true love' so common to those of his age. The boy had suffered through enough ordeals; why add the stark reality of sex to his list of adolescent problems?

It may already have been too late, though. Were that the case, she would deal with the repercussions the way she always had – with the truth.

Snatching up the clothes, she stepped into the nearby bathroom. It took her a moment to locate the painkillers – they were mixed in with the rarely used cosmetics – and extract two capsules, which she then swallowed. The matter of her migraine attended to, she turned on the shower and stepped under the cool spray. A cursory check of her body turned up nothing: no bruises, hickeys or bite-marks. It appeared that her previous night's lover hadn't bothered to 'stake his territory'. Interesting, that.

After applying and rinsing off the necessary shampoo and body wash, she toweled her hair dry, got dressed and headed for the dining room. Hope – she'd guessed correctly that _he_ was her houseguest, after all – was seated at the table, a steaming mug of tea between his hands. He turned towards her when she came in. A furrow had etched itself between his brows; his back and shoulders formed a set of rigid, perpendicular lines. Everything about his body language screamed apprehension.

She zoned in on it straightaway. "What's wrong, Hope?"

"I—" he began, before cutting himself off, gulping. "Do you," he tried again, no less hesitant, "remember what happened?"

"Last night?" She drew up a chair next to him and settled into it. Alarm bells went off in her head when he recoiled from her increased proximity. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"You… really can't remember anything?" Dismay was bleeding into his voice now.

The alarm bells grew in intensity until they became blaring sirens. Taking his hand, she curled his long, fine-boned fingers into her palm. "Hope, what happened?" she asked in a firm tone.

His gaze flicked to their joined hands, then away, then to her face and away again. "How – how do I put this?" The way he spoke, it was as though the words were being wrenched from him against his will. "We – that is to say, you and me – we—"

Upon hearing the word 'we', the fog that obscured her memories lifted. Suddenly her mind was flooded with images and sensations of heat and joined flesh. Amid the whirlwind of mindless lust, one thing remained constant: green eyes.

Eyes that were looking at her right now.

Which meant the one she'd fucked last night was—

_Hope._

Someone she'd trusted, indeed. No wonder he'd been privy to her indiscretion. He was _involved_ in it.

The Maker have mercy on her.

How could she have fucked Hope of all people? It wasn't remotely plausible. He may as well be her younger brother for Eden's sake! She'd met him when he was a whiny, temperamental little pubescent, sheltered him like a mother hen, watched him grow up. To consider him in a sexual light made her skin crawl. And not in a pleasant manner.

She must've been pissed out of her mind last night.

This was not good. This was not good _at all_.

Hope had been watching her as comprehension dawned. "You remember now, don't you." It was not a question. When she did not reply, his expression turned wild and he seized her hand with both of his, shaking it back and forth. "I'm so sorry, Light! I swear, I never meant to take advantage. You were just so— I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry_!"

It took her a while to process what he was saying. Hope believed that _he_ was to blame?

If there was anything Lightning understood about her own drunken behaviour, it was that loss of inhibition made her even more single-minded, more relentless, in her pursuits. Had Hope been her object of her lust – and he _had_ – there was little short of incapacitation that he could've done to stop her.

Eden, she'd practically raped the kid. Were she more of a decent person, she'd be carting herself off to prison right now. Pity it wouldn't do anyone – her unintended victim, especially – any good.

Taking his hands with her own, she gently pried them apart and set them to the side. "Hope, listen to me," she said, gaze steady on his. "_This isn't your fault_."

He shot her an incredulous look. "But it is! I was the sober one; I should've been more responsible—"

"You don't understand, Hope," she interrupted. What was with men and their misguided sense of honour? "I crossed a line I never should have."

He blinked at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Look, Hope. Last night – it was a mistake _I_ made."

"I don't get it."

"I wasn't the forced party. _You_ were."

"But I was—"

"—willing?" she finished for him. "Were you, really? Would you really have agreed to sex with no strings attached, knowing it wouldn't mean a thing to me? Because that's what it was."

She wasn't lying. The act in itself was devoid of emotion, its sole purpose to appease a physical urge. It was only in the aftermath that her emotions reengaged, translating into the horror she was feeling now that she realized she'd done it with _him_.

Friends – close ones like she and Hope, especially – weren't supposed to have sex with each other. That was the unspoken rule. It would complicate things, drag feelings into the equation – feelings she'd all but stated she did not have.

He'd understood this too, for he looked away, silent.

She sighed, a heavy, troubled sound. "Forget I asked. In fact, just forget the whole damn thing ever happened. It's better that way."

Hope's response was not something she'd have expected – he swerved back, gaping at her. A few seconds of tense silence followed, seconds in which she watched his expression crumple, become increasingly stricken.

"Hope—"

"I can't, okay!" he burst out. "I can't just... _forget_ it. Last night, it was the closest I'd ever—" he choked back the rest of the sentence, shaking his head frantically. "It meant everything to me! _I can't just forget it_!"

He caught her gaze with his. The pleading in his eyes, made all the more evident by the gleam of unshed tears, shot straight to her gut and made apprehension spike like a geyser erupting from the ground.

No. He couldn't possibly be—No. Just _no_.

His next words shattered her denial into a thousand crystal fragments.

"You should've seen yourself, Light," he continued, voice hoarse. "You were so beautiful. I couldn't – I couldn't have stopped myself even if I wanted to." His hand reached for hers again, thumb skimming over her knuckles in a desperate caress. "Light, I love you. If you'd just let me – let us be toge—"

"Hope, I cannot."

He froze, disbelief foremost in his expression. "Why? Why not?" When she said nothing, he squeezed her hand, gave her a look so forlorn that it threatened to rend her heart into two. "Please, Light. You mean the world to me. I promise I'll be good to you. I'll take care of you, prot—"

"Hope, I cannot," she repeated, anguished. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she added, "Please don't ask this of me."

He flinched as though she'd struck him, hand withdrawing and eyes scrunching shut. "Why? Why won't you give me a chance?"

"I just don't see you that way," she breathed, knowing as soon as the words came out from her mouth that they would only hurt him more. "You're like a younger brother to me."

His eyes snapped back open, anger shimmering in their aquamarine depths. "You'd have fucked your younger brother, then?"

The crudity of his words sparked her anger in turn, and she gritted her teeth to keep herself from lashing out at him. "Look, last night was a _mistake_—"

"Yeah, it was a mistake all right," he interrupted, tone deadly. "Tell me, Light. What _was_ I to you? A piece of meat? A willing body to fuck? _Something to use and throw away_? _Was that it_? WAS I NOTHING TO YOU?"

His voice gained force and momentum until he was all but screaming at the end, and she wanted to cover her ears to block out the ragged sound of it.

Sweet Eden, what _had_ she done?

Loath as she was to admit it, he was right. He'd been a mere object to her last night. She'd seen him at the door, recognized him. Failed to remember that she was never to touch him in _that_ manner. Then she'd ruthlessly seduced him, taken what she'd wanted from him without the slightest consideration as to how he felt about it.

Now, in the starkness of daylight, she'd declared that the act meant nothing to her. That it was better forgotten, swept under the rug. Never mind that she'd stolen his innocence along with it. Never mind that he'd declared his feelings for her and added a whole bunch of implications that she'd thrown aside because _she didn't want to deal with them_.

In effect, she, his self-appointed protector, had violated him and then abandoned him to the consequences.

It was a betrayal of the worst kind.

Hope had come to this realization sooner than she had. He was looking at her now, and however much she wanted to turn away from his gaze, she found that she couldn't. Green as the sea, his eyes resembled nothing so much as shards of broken glass, the edges jagged and bleeding. The sight of them – they should never have to look like that, least of all because of _her_ – tore at her heart, left it in raw, bloody pieces.

"I love you, Light," his words came out in a hushed sob. "Last night – it meant everything to me. Now you just wanna pretend it never happened? How – how could you even—?"

He pushed his chair back, standing. The abruptness of the action caused the tea to slosh in its mug.

"I'm leaving," he announced, and there was something about the artificial evenness of his tone that made her feel sick inside. "I can't bear this."

With forced, brisk strides, he headed towards the door. Deciding that to let him go in this state would be something she'd regret, Lightning leapt to her feet and chased after him.

"Hope, wait!"

She stretched out a hand to grasp his wrist, but he yanked himself out of reach, snarling.

"_Don't touch me_! Haven't you done enough of _that_ last night?"

It blindsided her, the rush of pain that came with hearing those words. Her arm fell back to her side, all of a sudden heavier than lead.

"Please," he said, voice quiet and infinitely sad, "just leave me alone."

He unlatched the door. A creak of rusty hinges later, and he was gone.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought to pursue him. To seize him into her embrace and beg his forgiveness. Then the moment passed, dissolving into mist along with her will to stand up. One after the other, her knees gave way, and she sank onto a heap on the floor.

A single lapse of judgment was all it had taken. A single lapse, and she had destroyed the innocence of the boy she loved, damaged him irreparably.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, burying her face in her palm.

_Hope, I'm sorry._

Left unattended on the table, the mug of tea grew cold.

_Fin._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I will _not_ be writing a sequel, so please don't bother me about one.


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